


there are wondrous things, there are dangerous things (we get what we deserve)

by moonbeatblues



Category: Carmilla - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Trigger warnings:, ask to tag Always, suicide; drowning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 00:28:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16006478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonbeatblues/pseuds/moonbeatblues
Summary: a Tanis (podcast) au in which:-Laura dreams of cabins in the woods and gods below the earth and is straying too far towards something beyond understanding-Carmilla Karnstein knows more than she’s letting on and might be the runner Laura’s looking for (as soon as Laura figures out what that means)-Will Luce has over 90,000 cassette tapes belonging to his dead brother, who may or may not have found what he was looking for in Russian number stations-LaF is an old friend and a regular Internet archaeologist growing more worried the deeper they have to dig to help Laura-Danny leads a team of outcast scientists looking for answers and somewhat begrudgingly allied with Carm-Lilita Morgan heads the illustrious and secretive Styrian Industries that Laura keeps tangling herself up in-Perry is another old friend, and a very nervous sleep therapist-and something is alive underneath the Austrian woods





	there are wondrous things, there are dangerous things (we get what we deserve)

**Author's Note:**

> gosh, this time of year already?  
> I’ll be posting this periodically, as school/other engagements allow.

You really weren’t planning on this going anywhere.

You still don’t think you make for a very good podcast host.

 

But, you suppose, you should’ve realized you were in too deep when you found out about the tapes.

More specifically, that the owner had just died.

-

 

Will Luce is brusquer than you thought he’d be.

There’s this point to his teeth that he hides in this unfamiliar way, and he toes at the containers listlessly as you follow him around the dusty belly of the basement.

“You ever listen to them?” You ask, without your attempted overtones. He’d asked you not to record.

 

“No, JP never let me.” He sighs. “Wouldn’t even let me come down to look at the furnace when it conked out until it got fucking freezing down here. Kept standing over my shoulder the whole time, like I was tracking water all over the floor.”

 

It’s like he’s trying to be angry, falling short into this sad, idle fondness. “It’s my house, for fuck’s sake. Dunno why I let him.”

 

You don’t answer, nursing the lukewarm glass of water Will had offered upstairs.

Only a brother would let JP do this down here, you think. The walls are more than bare-bones- down to the marrow, you’d call it. Exposed wires with the drywall in clawed-looking heaps in the corners. One chair, one desk, and hundreds of radios.

 

And, of course, the tapes.

It looks like JP was trying to stay organized, at first, but the tapes start to spill over into less conventional containers. Shoeboxes, the loose shelves of broken cabinets, what looks to be a terrarium of some kind.

 

For the podcast, you scale the descriptors down to “something akin to a dragon’s hoard under the suburbs.”

 

For Will, you just tell him you’re sorry and ask to take a look at the tapes.

 

And to take a box home.

 

He shifts uncomfortably. “I guess- I guess I was planning on getting rid of them anyway.”

 

“Well, I’ll just check out a few and let you know if I think they have anything to do with, uh. With the podcast.”

“Yeah, okay.”

 

You’ve looped back around and he makes for the stairs.

“Hey, you want a beer or anything? Sorry if it seems like I don’t want you around; I just don’t really. Wanna talk about Jeep. Too soon, I guess.”

 

“Uh, sure.”

-

Will nurses some craft beer that’s very decidedly from Oregon in the doorway while you balance your bottle on the roof of the truck and fish around for your cassette player in the flatbed.

 

“You, too, huh?” He seems a lot happier now you’re above ground. “Guess he wasn’t that alone.”

 

“Yeah, well.” Your truck chirps behind you. “It’s kinda my job to listen to things.”

 

Will rocks back and forth on his feet. “Right.”

-

 

Laura: So yeah, at least fifty.

 

LaF: _Thousand_? Jesus, this dude.

 

Laura: Yeah, I know. There’s no way I’m gonna get through all of these, even if I rope in some of the interns.

 

LaF: What are they of, anyway?

 

Laura: They’re all radio broadcasts. Mostly Russian.

 

LaF: What, like music or fuckin’ number stations?

 

Laura: Both. More the number stations, though.

 

LaF: This dude’s ex-military, right? And he was stationed up there. Maybe he actually knew what they were saying.

 

Laura: According to Will, that’s what he was trying to figure out.

 

LaF: Wait, you don’t think that’s why he ate it, right?

 

<Laura: No, dude. Be civil or I’ll have to cut this.

 

LaF: Sorry.

 

Laura: He hung himself with his own belt.

 

LaF: Jesus.

 

Laura: Yeah.>

-

 

Perry’s office has this one big clock over the door that ticks loud enough to shake the room. Sitting with your head back so it’s pressing up against one of the plush arms over her chintz-y sofa, you know it’s not speeding up, but in your ears it’s clicking for all the world like a Geiger counter.

 

You close your eyes with the same fruitless certainty of someone deciding to fall asleep. It smells like essential oils and the soapy, syrupy flowering of scented candles. There is, of course, a myriad of both.

Perry used to like incense. You wonder if she believes herself when she says it isn’t the same.

 

Perry flips a page in that deep yellow moleskin. She used to like other colors better, too.

“Close your eyes, please.”

-

You always try to trim down these recordings, ever since the first one. It takes you way too long to fall asleep for such a singular medium, even after all these sessions, and you’re afraid of the tone you take when you’re under.

You stab half-heartedly at the fast-forward button.  
-

Perry: Laura?

 

(Perry’s speaking with that low, dreamy satisfaction of helping a client under.)

 

Laura: Yes?

 

(You shiver, a little.)

 

Perry: Can you tell me where you are?

 

Laura: Yes.

 

(Your voice sounds like the thick smoke-smell of a campsite in the early morning, like the ghost of someone else’s fire.)

 

Laura: I’m outside the cabin.

 

Perry: Is the door locked this time?

Laura: No. But the doorknob is hot.

Perry: Hot? Like something’s burning inside?

 

Laura: No.

 

Perry: Are you afraid?

 

Laura: Sometimes.

 

Perry: What about right now?

 

Laura: No. I’m… excited.

 

Perry: Why are you excited?

 

(You don’t trim this pause. Your recorder stays pinned to your shirt pocket during sessions, and you can hear the sound of your dry lips peeling back into the sort of smile that makes you afraid of yourself, every time.)

 

Laura: He’s here.

-

 

The next time you call up Will, things are.

Different.

 

“Laura-” he sounds almost scandalized- “hi.”

 

“Will, hi. I took a look at a few of those tapes and I think the rest could be really important. Do you think I could come by again to bring some back to the station?”

 

There’s a long, vaguely staticky pause.

“Will?”

 

“That isn’t possible.”

 

“Will, I know they were your brother’s, and you have every right to be protective of them, I just- “

 

“I don’t have them anymore.”

 

“What?”

 

“Two people came by the day after you were here, and they offered to buy everything. Even all the radios. Even promised to clear everything out the same day.”

 

Fuck. LaF was right.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

“They, uh, they didn’t really like that you contacted me.”

 

“They know who I am?”

This is bad.

 

“Hey, don’t look at me. Your podcast is public. Even I listen to it.”

 

“Yeah, but you didn’t until I- Will, why would you get rid of all of them? If you listen to the podcast then you know what’s on them!”

 

Will sighs directly into the mic, and you wince. RIP earbud users.

 

“Look, Laura. You seem nice, and I hope you find what you’re looking for to help your podcast, or your research, or whatever you want out of this, but they were old recordings of random radio stations, and they belonged to my dead brother. I hope you can understand why I wouldn’t want them in my house anymore.”

 

You snap one of your flimsier pencils over your desk, far away from your mic.

 

“I’m not rich, okay? I love Jeep, but he also fucked up my basement really badly, and he wasn’t exactly paying rent.”

 

“Fuck, Will, I’m sorry- “

 

“I feel bad about it too, okay? But I did what I had to.”

He hangs up. You sweep pencil shards into your wastebasket and do a few of Perry’s breathing exercises before you call someone else.

-

 

LaF: Well, shit.

 

Laura: Yeah.

 

LaF: What now?

 

Laura: Now, we keep looking.

LaF: Any ideas?

 

Laura: Actually, I did get a pretty weird voicemail.

 

LaF: Yeah, well, what else is new?

 

-

Danny is tall. And pretty. And tall.

 

“I shouldn’t be talking to you.”

She says it quietly, and over the rim of her coffee cup, but it’s enough to make you glance around. Scope out the suddenly-suspicious coffee chain- which shall remain unnamed for Legal Reasons- and its winter-stiff patrons.

 

“I know. And I’m glad you did anyway.”

 

Danny sighs. “Me, too.”

 

“So, you’ve been there? Silas?”

 

“Yeah. At least where it is right now.”

 

“And where is that?”

 

“Don’t be naive, Laura. You already know.”

 

“I’m not! I- “

 

“Where else could it be?”

Danny leans in. In any other context, you’d probably be thrilled. She smells like pine and the golden latte on her side of the table.

“Why do you think you’re having your dreams again? Why’d your friend Lola offer to give you free sessions after not talking to you for three years? Why do you think you’ve been allowed to contact Morgan?”

 

You shrink back, just a little.

“How do you know about my dreams?”

Entirely for the sake of the listeners, of course, you wish you’d managed to keep your voice from that panicked squeak.

 

“It’s here, Laura. And He’s waking up.”

-

 

<LaF: Hey, at least, you got her number.

 

Laura: LaF!

 

LaF: Sorry. Just lookin’ out for Silas’s tiniest lesbian.

 

Laura: You know I’m cutting this, right?

 

LaF: Hey, I’m not the one who cares about recording all my conversations.

 

Laura: /distinct cough/>

 

Laura: So. Silas is here.

 

LaF: Seems that way, if we’re taking Clifford’s word for it.

 

Laura: We are.

 

LaF: So-

 

Laura: So I’m going to try to get in touch with Morgan again.

 

LaF: Frosh, are you gonna get stupider with each conversation? Because for your sake, I can stop answering your Skype calls.

 

Laura: I’m serious.

 

LaF: Seriously _dumb_.

(Ouch.)

You can’t trust any distant billionaire CEO, Laura. They’re like sharks: they serve a purpose, but you’re not supposed to get out of the cage. Honestly, why even go in the ocean-

 

Laura: _LaF_.

 

LaF: Seriously. This would be a bad idea even if it wasn’t the same one breathing down the necks of anyone who’s heard of Silas and shedding NDAs like hibernation just ended.

 

Laura: I don’t have another choice. Unless you can find me something, and soon.

 

LaF: God, I’ll fuckin’ try, frosh. You realize this is blackmail, right?

-

 

And, well, LaF is true to their word.

-

LaF: Okay, what do you want first? An ancient god that may or may not be trapped under the earth, news about Clifford’s camping party, or the tortured Austrian definitely-not-a-vampire of your dreams?

 

Laura: Uh, the ancient god, I guess? Can you send me whatever you dug up?

LaF: Check your inbox.

 

<You cut several seconds of LaF’s smug silence while you download the attachments.>

 

Laura: ‘Lophii.. formes?’ What is this?

 

LaF: Now that, dear Hollis, is a good question.

No one knows where the myth originated, but Lophii is some kind of proto-divine, Titan-adjacent being that was buried alive by the god of night and has been sleeping ever since, anchored to by a single location to the mortal world. Anchored to one city.

 

<You let them have this smug pause.>

 

LaF: And no one knows the origin of the myth because-

 

Laura: Because the city moves.

 

LaF: You got it.

 

Laura: Shit.

 

LaF: Yeah.

 

Laura: So if Silas is here, then it is, too.

 

LaF: Not it, Laura. _He_.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me @seafleece on tumblr, or @quetzalcoatmundi for my writing  
> I’ll link to the art from @arthkael— who’s been absolutely lovely throughout this— once it’s up


End file.
